


The Calm Before

by Ophelia_Raine



Series: O Politico [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASOIAF Rare Pair Week, ASoIaF Rare Pair Week 2018, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Angst and Feels, Change in tone from the comedy of errors that was Trials and Tribulations, F/M, Forbidden Love, Love, May/December Relationship, Older Man/Younger Woman, Romance, Secret Relationship, Secret Sex, Still with the West Wing vibes, Tywin Lannister for President, asoiaf rarepair week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 20:17:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15104132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: It's half past two in the morning and Tywin Lannister, newly-minted President of the Seven Kingdoms, needs to get to his girlfriend's house.





	The Calm Before

By any modern standard, the Red Keep is an impressive mofo — a formidable fortress built both to intimidate and withstand attack, be it the ancient fires of mythical dragons and actual warriors, or the present-day threats of air raids and nuclear obliteration.  

They say the Red Keep is as much fortress above ground as below, and Tywin Lannister pushes a panel on the wall adjacent to his private restroom now. The entire wall sinks in and slides open with a grace and a whisper as the lights flicker on, illuminating a secret staircase leading down to the passageway that eventually leads to the elevator he’s only heard about. 

It’s the question most frequently posed to tour guides of the Keep. At least a daily occurrence from the throngs of tourists who flock in from all Seven Kingdoms. _Is there really a secret network of tunnels under the Keep?_ “Sure,” they would deadpan. “The President fancies a Frozen Coke sometimes. He likes to slip out and run across the street and get his from the 7-Eleven beside the Great Sept of Baelor."  

The best secrets are truths that smell like legend.  

Two of his guards get into the front of the cab while he slides into the back seat. At half-past-two on a Monday morning, King’s Landing feels almost deserted as the capital finally slumbers. And even if someone were to wonder why the windows of this particular cab seem more heavily tinted than most, the last thing anyone would expect is the newly-minted President of the Seven Kingdoms to be sitting pretty in it. 

She waits patiently at the door as they frisk her before making their usual checks around her cosy three-bedroom home. She sees him; he’s wound down the window and they stare at each other — a wordless conversation thick with worry and relief. She’s in nothing but her dressing gown and in the crisp cool air, he knows her nipples would have pebbled. 

They can never be truly alone now. His body men, his guards… they are his appendage, more so now than even when he was just a Congressman. And even though he is theoretically and practically the most powerful man in Westeros, Tywin is learning that he is not yet an autocrat. 

Early days. 

They are as alone as can be now. Both men stand guard outside her door like bloody sentinels and even though it’s hardly discreet, Tywin is almost past giving a fuck about all that now. The need for secrecy is ironically almost superfluous, given what he knows is about to fall. 

As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, his arms find her and he feels her own slip easily around his waist as he brings his lips down to hers and tastes her. She’s brushed her teeth, just for him. 

“What is it?” she asks when they finally break their kiss and sigh heavily in relief and contentment. Margaery reaches up and brushes his face as if trying to smooth a decade of worry and age.  

“Someone knows.” His voice is deeper than normal. It’s what happens when he tries to ground himself. “It will break tomorrow. All media outlets will be briefed at half-past-eight, and we expect the story to break by nine. They know.” 

A sharp inhale before she covers her mouth reflexively. “They know?” 

“About us.” 

* * *

“Are you sure it’s not Grandmother?” she asks for the fifth time.

“It’s not Olenna.” 

“She’s still very, very sore about losing, you know. She’s been _hating_ it. Been talking about a comeback, except who on earth wants to wait another four years? She’ll be seventy-eight by then!” 

“She’ll live to be a hundred. But that’s not the point, Margaery. It’s not Olenna.” 

They’re seated now — him on her favourite armchair, and she on her couch, the one that is entirely too soft and gives him a sore back. They’re not touching, which is always a sign that they’re talking about work. Even if work is now about their very private sex life. 

Margaery's almost desperate for it to be her own grandmother, because then Margaery just might be able to help him. To save _them_. He knows it’s exactly what she hopes to the gods this all is: Olenna’s last grasp to stir some trouble for her oldest adversary. Throw a bomb right in his first week of Office. 

If only it were that simple. 

“Give her something!” And it’s like she doesn’t truly hear him, when he tells her it’s not Olenna. “Make her Secretary of State! Make her feel useful. PLUS, she’ll be the first female SoS and you get to look like you’re above petty party politics by reaching across the pond for the best woman for the job!” It actually sounds like she’s thought about this for a while. And it’s not a bad idea, so much so that a softness touches his eyes now. 

“It’s not Olenna, Margaery.” 

“Then who is it!” she cries out now in frustration. “It’s not Petyr Baelish, is it?” 

“My own Chief of Staff? That’s rather self-defeating. No, it’s not him.” 

“Don’t look at me like that, Tywin. He’s perfectly capable of such perfidy.” And he wants to kiss her now, his sceptical, _clever_  woman.  

She knows he can’t tell her everything. Theirs is a relationship of secrets out of sheer necessity and ferocious choice. For ages, they had come together precisely because they had no wish to _talk_. She never asked and he never told and they fell in love anyway. She is no Mata Hari, and he is no fool that he would loosen his lips after he’s sated his cock.  

And yet, this is precisely what everyone will accuse them of. Pillow talk. Colluding. Election espionage. The nuclear launch codes whispered into the ears of a woman seductress young enough to be his own granddaughter. 

Their shiny new leader, nothing but a dirty old man.  

Except he knows it won’t just be about him. 

“Margaery…” and he reaches over now. There’s a tightness in his eyes before he finally places his hand over hers and squeezes gently. “It’s not just me they’ll come after. You. You’re about to get spanked. Hard.” 

Her eyes widen a fraction but in reading them, he knows she’s not surprised. She’s not a stupid little girl. She is truly the granddaughter of Olenna Tyrell and he’s never underestimated her.

“What do they have, do you know?” she finally asks in a low voice. “What did it, in the end? Who fucked up?” 

And he brings her whitened knuckles to his face and gazes at her over them before brushing his lips across her knuckles. 

“You did,” he replied impassively. “The night of the cocktail, National Day. Someone recognised you at our hotel. Started wondering why you were hanging around there instead of the Hyatt, where the rest of your grandmother’s campaign was. Started taking pictures.” 

“I tried!” she whispered. “I took the service lifts. I was in disguise…” 

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” 

“You’re just saying that!” And she snatches her hand away and he lets her. “Fuck!”  

“I never ‘just say’ anything,” Tywin points out now.  

She stares at him for ten seconds, maybe twelve. The blood is leeching from her face and everything is starting to tense. Even the corners of that beautiful, sultry mouth are pinched down unhappily. She can barely speak the words.  

“I’m so sorry, Tywin!” 

“Hush!” 

And then he’s upon her, slipping over to her couch as he reaches for her and pulls her in, covering her sins as he covers her mouth with his. She clings to him and kisses him back with that familiar ferocity, the one that so easily gets him started, sets him alight. She feels herself sinking back into the couch and his body unfurl, lengthening across the narrow couch on top of her. He breaks the kiss, smooths her dark brown hair from her face so gently, it almost hurts to look back at him. 

“Hush,” he says once more before he drops his head and kisses her again, tugging hungrily at the hem of her nightie, desperate to lose himself in her. And she will gladly take anything of him, of course. What precious little the President of Westeros can ill afford to give. 

* * *

“Why now?”

She’s lying on his chest now, his shirt still on although he’d been sure to strip her bare and taste every inch of her. Their coupling had been short and frenzied, a most inconvenient feature of his current day job where his every minute is accounted for — even the ones outside of office hours. Baelish must be going bloody spare. 

“Why not before?” she continues to ask, warming up to her inquisition. “If they found out about us before the election, why not use the knowledge then to derail you? Unless…” 

And she pulls herself up to stare down at him. He waits. She doesn’t usually take very long. 

“They were waiting for you to win…” she realises slowly. 

“Yes.” 

“But why threaten to tell the media now? Unless…” And he watches as her brown eyes light up with understanding tinged with fear.  

“They must want something from you! This isn’t a whistle-blower — this is blackmail!” 

“Yes.” 

And for the very first time, she has to know. She dares to ask.  

"What do they want!” 

And he rubs down her arms slowly, as if trying to warm her as he picks his words before he finally gives up.  

“Dorne.” 

“What?” 

“They want my support to push for Dorne’s independence from the Seven.” 

A shocked silence. He can hardly blame her. He's known for a week and he still can hardly believe it himself. 

“Surely you wo—“ And then Margaery bites her lip as he narrows his eyes. _Careful_ , he tells her now with a firm tap on the side of her hip. This is precisely what they’ll be accused of. Whispering state secrets while in a state of undress.  

As it is, he has said far too much.  

A defection of a whole region, of fifteen percent of the Kingdom’s economy. On _his_ watch. In his first hundred days —barely a fortnight since his investiture. They were betting huge and they will pay for this, alright. They will pay for it with lives both figurative and literal.  

And yet… There is a certain impotence that comes with the job, Tywin's learning. It was still different when they were campaigning — he needed to play nice with others, but he had stumped so much of the money on his own that he could afford then to push his own agenda. He had been the candidate no one could dictate to. A true rarity — a man of vision, ideals, pragmatism, fortitude, ability, will, and means.  

But he was President now. And this was the biggest machinery of all.  

And he’d always known that the day might come — right from the very first kiss. He had known how to play it, or at least had resolved within himself his hierarchy of needs. There would be Olenna, who would sooner paint him a manipulative pervert than brand her own beloved granddaughter a spying whore. There would be the Most Devout in uproar and the religious seized up over his sex life and the age disparity — which might ironically endear him to the Liberals for a change.  

And now with Dorne’s blackmail… There is only one recourse for blackmailers, really. And that is to remove the sting from the scorpion’s tail — before crushing the lowlife underfoot. 

At seven, the Office of Tywin Lannister will come clean on the nature of his relationship with Margaery Tyrell.   

If he has to — and he will have to — he will stand aside as Petyr spins and weaves. And in the course of doing so, Petyr will almost certainly throw every dirty trick he has at Margaery and Olenna, and go on the offensive. Margaery  _will_ get spanked. If she thinks about it long and hard enough, she might even expect it.  

For one of the last things Tywin will ever allow is to appear the fool who sacrifices his duty for the fleeting warmth of a woman. 

And the very last thing he’ll _ever_ let them all see, manipulate, laugh at, and use is his deep and inexplicable love for young Margaery Tyrell.  

Margaery might not be surprised when the shit hits the fan later. She might even understand. But she will never, ever forgive him. 

He brings his arm up behind her neck and gently coaxes her back down. _Hold her close now,_ he begs himself. _Kiss her one more time and then another. Breathe her in and bottle this moment._

For in four short hours, she will hate him.  

**Author's Note:**

> "This is a one-off", she said. "Not going to turn this into a multi-chapter or a series", she said.
> 
> This fic came on suddenly, after an impulsive decision to submit something for Rare Pair week. If you're new to the Tywin-Marge canoe, welcome! Plenty of room here. 
> 
> And as for the rest of you who started with the madcap mayhem of musical rooms that was [Trials and Tribulations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14926478)... yeah. This one got angsty. Sorry for the whiplash. 
> 
> [You can find me on Tumblr too](https://0pheliaraine.tumblr.com/). Do drop in and say hello!
> 
> And as always, I welcome any and all comments. Always love a good ol' chat.


End file.
